


Marked for Death(stroke)

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 13:09:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12582616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: The first touch is supposed to be something to look forward to. A brush of fingers or the clasping of hands that reveals who your soulmate is supposed to be, color and patterns sliding out over skin and marking you for the rest of your life. Of all the ways to get one, Dick's never even considered that his might come from one of his greatest enemies hitting him across the face. Slade's not too pleased with it either.





	Marked for Death(stroke)

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's a stupid, punny title but I couldn't resist. Anyway, this is for day 7 of SladeRobin Week: Switching Sides. This is a first-touch variation of the soulmate marks idea, in which the first skin-to-skin touch will spawn a floral-like mark on that skin. It also deals with the latest run of Deathstroke comics, in which Slade had a sort of world-shattering experience and is currently leading a team of sort-of heroes called Defiance, including Terra, Wally West (the younger), Joey, Rose, and Tanya Spears (Power Girl). So if you're not caught up to comics, there is your explanation. XD (This does not mean that Slade is now a totally good hero person, but he does seem to be trying.)
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

Robin's teeth flash as his back hits the wall, and he only barely manages to duck out of the way of the heel Slade aims for his gut that would have knocked any remaining air from his lungs. Kid's always been fast, and piece by piece he's learning; he's come a long way from pixie boots and puns, and from living under the Bat's shadow.

Still, not far enough.

His punch gets brushed aside, but the kid doesn't get fully out of the way of the knee that Slade twists up to slam into his side. _That_ drives the air from him in an audible rush, and the force knocks him back against the wall where it's simple enough to grab a handful of Robin's black hair and push the kid's face up against the brick. Slade pushes close enough to neutralize any real attempt at kicking him — his boots should be thick enough that a stomp won't hurt all that badly — and grabs the kid's right arm to twist it back.

"We don't have to do this, kid," Slade offers, ignoring the way that Robin's free hand has come up to scrabble against the glove wrapped into his hair. "Walk away; I've got no fight with you."

"Like _hell_ ," the kid snaps back. "You're protecting that shipment. This is Titans' territory and we're not letting anyone run weapons through it, so get out of the way!"

It's tempting to tell the kid how very wrong he is, but Slade resists. Let them think that he's there to protect the morons that decided to run weapons blatantly enough to get the Titans' attention. Let Robin think that he's got no idea that the other Titans are, as they play here, taking apart that very shipment. After all, his real job will be easier to do if they think that he's 'failed' already and beaten a retreat. That way, he can take out the leaders of this subsection of the larger operation and make sure, as he's _actually_ being paid for, that they don't clue the Titans into the larger operation.

He doesn't actually believe that assassinating all the leaders the Titans are about to catch will do anything but pique their interest, but he's not invested in the outcome of the plan so he didn't particularly care to correct his employer's assumption. Not his job.

"Not going to happen," he pretends, craning Robin's arm back another couple inches until the hitch of breath lets him know he's found the edges of the kid's flexibility. "You of all people should know that I keep my word, Robin. As long as I'm getting paid for it, you're not getting to that shipment."

He hears the _click_ of the latches on his glove coming loose a fraction before Robin says, "Want to _bet?_ ”

The kid shoves back against him, one foot bracing on the wall to give him some real force and send all his weight crashing back into Slade. It's enough to move him, to get him to stagger back a step, but not enough to knock his grips loose. At least, not normally. (It would work with a non-enhanced opponent; it's only his strength that lets him hold on.) But as the kid twists, 'running' up the wall to then flip back and over Slade's head, he lets go. The alternative is holding on and breaking the kid's arm, if not his neck as well, and he's not invested in hurting Robin that badly. At least not this time.

The yellow cape falls into his face as Robin flips over his shoulders, and fingers hook into his opened glove and drag it off his hand as the kid comes down at his back, immediately sinking a punch into his back and a foot into the back of one knee to collapse it. Slade lets him have it; his armor's thick enough that there's barely any real pain, and the kid dances off in the next moment to regain distance instead of pressing the advantage. Not that he truly had an advantage.

Slade gets back to his feet, raising an eyebrow down at his now bare right hand as he turns to face Robin, and the glove he's discarding down onto the alley floor. "I'm not sure what it is that you think that proved, kid, but it didn't."

Robin's laugh is a sharp thing. "That right?"

The aggression is expected, and Slade lets himself fall into defensive patterns as he 'gives' beneath Robin's attacks. He doesn't let anything land, but he lets the kid think that he's being pressed back, step by step. It makes him confident, makes him more likely to make a mistake and allow an opening to strike in return.

_There_.

He steps in as quickly as the thrust of a blade, swinging his arm out in the undefended moment and backhanding the kid with enough force to knock him to the ground. It's his bare hand, so it doesn't break the bone beneath Robin's cheek, but it's still more than enough to stun. The kid's gloves scrape along the ground, and Slade shakes his hand to dispel the sting of the impact and the—

His gaze drops to his hand with a frown, seeking out the source of the unfamiliar heat warming the back of his hand, as if he were standing next to a fire. He blinks as he lifts it enough to get a look, and then comes to a sudden, dead stop.

There's a growing pattern of black and blue on the back of his hand, vines winding in between his knuckles as a large, blue flower spirals into being right in the center. He stares as the pattern solidifies, the tendrils of the woven-together vines winding between his knuckles and just barely onto his palm, and then looping his wrist on the opposite side. That's… That's not possible. Robin is under half his age, and a _hero_. There is no possible way that the boy is his _soulmate_.

(Have they truly never touched before? Skin to skin?)

Slade's attention is taken back as the kid gets to his feet, wobbling a bit but glaring at him. All down the right side of his face, where Slade struck, is a similarly woven pattern of black vines and small, orange flowers scattered among them, just settling into place. Well that's… awkward, to say the least. A _soulmate_ ; just under forty years without one and he was starting to believe it might never actually happen. He certainly never imagined that it might be with a sixteen year old boy, and perhaps he would have been better off if things had stayed that way because he can't imagine the kid taking this well.

"Kid—” he starts, but Robin doesn't let him finish.

Slipping back into combat feels easy, but that new knowledge leashes him. He keeps his returned blows restrained, bruising but not truly injuring, as he fends the kid off. And then, growing frustrated with the aggression and the lack of ability to effectively communicate while faced with it, he takes an opening and hits _hard_. Robin goes down from the gut-shot, down on his knees as he coughs and heaves for breath.

Slade takes a hard breath himself, and growls, "Kid, _listen_ for a second. _Look_."

Robin's head lifts, and Slade sees the moment of utter shock that comes when he holds up his right hand for the kid to see. Confusion, shock, and then a sharp anger that has him spitting, "I don't know what you're trying to pull, but—”

"I don't have any reason to fake this," he says, blunt as he can manage. "And maybe I could fake this one, but I haven't had the time or the opportunity to fake the one on your face, kid." The kid blinks, and Slade offers his hand. "How about you stand up, pull out whatever's in that belt of yours that will work as a mirror, and take a look."

The kid hesitates for a few moments, but then grits his teeth together and takes the offer. It's easy to pull him to his feet, though Robin pulls sharply away from him the moment that the kid's standing on his own. He waits through another bit of hesitance, before the kid looks down just enough to dig into one section of his belt and pull out a heavily-encased cellphone. Slade doesn't even pretend to look away as it's unlocked and the kid navigates to a camera function, swapping the direction and then tilting his head.

"What the _hell?_ " is the half-breathed reaction, free hand rising to ghost over the mark, and then rubbing at it more firmly as if seeing if it will come off. Obviously it doesn't, though Slade understands the compulsion.

That's when the kid reels half a step back, phone dipping, other hand still to his face. The part to his lips and the way he inhales, sharp and just slightly shaky, speaks obviously enough to whatever mix of fear and shock is affecting him. Slade crosses his arms and waits.

"This can't be real," the kid says, half to himself. His gaze lifts, now staring at Slade. He swallows and takes another step back, shaking his head. "No, whatever you've done— You're not my soulmate; you _can't_ be."

"Destiny isn't something to be predicted, kid. Believe me or not, I didn't do anything." He just barely resists snorting as the kid backs even further away; not surprising that he’s falling heavily into denial. “For whatever it’s worth to you, the feeling’s mutual. I’m not particularly interested in having a soulmate half my age and a _hero_ on top of it.”

“Oh yeah,” the kid snaps, “I’m sure it must be hard to have to deal with having a match that won’t just _murder_ people.”

“Oversimplifying, as usual.”

“No, I just don’t think _murder_ can be excused away behind financial gain!” The kid is glaring at him now; that’s a little more familiar than the stunned denial.

Slade raises an eyebrow, letting his arms fall out of the crossed position. "I don't recall ever trying to make excuses for what I do, boy, but I'm a mercenary, not a serial killer. Treating the two as the same thing invites a view of morality that is utterly black and white, a luxury _you_ may have but most do not. I have no interest in it."

Robin takes a sharp step forward, apparently driven from his desire to keep distance between them by his anger. "And that?! That's exactly why—”

The explosion makes them both flinch down onto slightly bent knees, Robin's head twisting to watch the plume of fire soar up into the sky from the direction of his teammates' fight. Whether it's a good explosion or a bad one, it's Slade's cue to move in for his actual mission. Now all he has to do is get away from the boy and find a nice rooftop to take his shots from.

Robin makes it easy. The boy looks back at him just long enough to spit, "This doesn't change anything," before sprinting off in the direction of the blaze.

Slade only allows himself a brief shake of his head before he starts to move as well.

It's simple to collect the case he left behind in preparation and ascend to one of the many rooftops around the incredibly stereotypical abandoned warehouse the idiots chose to do business in. Now on fire; Raven and Beast Boy are working on containing and putting out the fire, while Cyborg and Starfire stand watch over a bundle of men handcuffed or otherwise restrained into submission. He's in enough time, after he puts together his rifle and lies down on the roof with it, to see Robin walk up to the two guarding Titans through his scope.

He gives a soft snort of amusement; the boy's smeared dirt across the side of his face. It does cover up the mark well enough, he'll admit that.

Slade takes his time picking out the faces of the men he's been hired to kill, scattered in among the rest. Robin singles one out to draw away, pushing him down to his knees away from the rest of the captured men and grabbing him by both lapels to glare down. Now or never.

He breathes out and takes the shot, putting a neat hole in the idiot's head and splattering blood all over Robin's uniform. He can't hear the shouts from here, but he can see the wild terror in the eyes of the second man he shoots, and then the third. He leaves the rifle where it's lying; let the Titans find the evidence of the crime, it won't get them anywhere. They've tried to locate him a hundred times, and never managed.

Robin must point out where the shots are coming from, because as Slade leaves the rooftop Starfire flies overhead, energy blasting from her fingertips. Dodging is easy, and leaving her behind even easier. He had his escape routes planned before he ever stepped foot in the neighborhood, and Starfire may have more power but she's not the tracker that Robin is. By the time the boy can catch up and find where he's gone, he'll be too far away to catch.

His hand itches; he ignores it.

No, nothing's changed.

* * *

Dick stares at the mark in the mirror, lifting one hand to trace the familiar patterns of the black vines framing the right side of his face, and the corners of the small orange flowers mostly hidden within them that don't blend into his skin tone nearly well enough for his taste. No, the damn thing is vivid and dark against his skin, and anyone who sees it can tell at a glance that it's a mark, not just a tattoo. He hates that it's so obvious; why couldn't Slade have hit him somewhere easier to hide?

(Well that was the problem, wasn't it? All those fights, but most of them with Slade armored head to toe. Actual touch was nothing more than an accident.)

For the first few weeks, he'd hoped the mark would just wash off. That it was some long-lasting terrible joke or some sick game that Slade was playing, and if he just washed it enough, _scrubbed_ it enough, it would slide right off his skin. It didn't.

He hid it as long as he could with makeup and sometimes a fake skin graft, but he was among a bunch of other superheroes and one of them was his _girlfriend_ , so that didn't last long. It did work long enough to distance its appearance from his fight with Slade, and at the time that was one of the most important things to him. They didn't particularly believe the lie he told them, that he didn't know who it was, but they also didn't have the information to immediately conclude who it was he was denying.

Starfire stuck with him for a time, to her credit, but it didn't last. Neither did Barbara. Having a relationship with someone that you know isn't your soulmate is… difficult, for all parties involved. (Though he certainly believes in the 'romance' of soulmates a whole lot less now than he did when he was a kid.)

Years passed, his name and his teams changed, but the mark never faded. He's gotten more used to the feeling of that graft — now far more high-tech than it was, and less likely to come off with water or a good punch — against his face than the sight of the mark in the mirror. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to it.

And yet here he is, actually thinking about going to Slade. About really _talking_ with him in the first time in… years. Quite a few years. They've traded barbs in fights, Slade's stopped by sometimes to warn him off cases that he then immediately goes after, but a real conversation? He doesn't think there's been one of those since… Well, since Grant's death, maybe. He can't remember exactly.

But recently, after the mess with Wally and Slade trying to go back far enough to stop Grant from ever dying, he's heard that Slade's gone… good. Or, well, as good as Slade can manage. Still a mercenary, still apparently _charging_ people for rescue by his super-team, but… helping. Actually helping. He's not positive he believes it, but he's heard the reports and he knows the people on the team. The younger Wally, Joey, Rose, Tanya, Tara, and run behind by the scenes by _Adeline_ of all people. It sounds like an absolute recipe for disaster, as far as Dick’s concerned, but it seems to be working so far. Maybe.

At the least, he hasn’t heard of any of those participants dying just yet.

With Wally there… How can he _not_ go check it out? If Slade is blackmailing them somehow, or hurting them, or any number of other things, he’s got a responsibility to stop it. Slade’s been his responsibility ever since these marks tied them together. Maybe he’s been shoving his head in the sand recently, letting other people deal with him, but the break’s over. Time to get to work.

Their hideout is only a few cities away, but he opts to take one of Bruce’s jets to get there anyway. Rather have the firepower in case… Well, in case this is exactly what he’s worried it is.

There are other ways he could get in, but he takes the polite route for now. He presses the doorbell.

It only takes a moment for it to open, and he’s not particularly surprised to see Wally there, out of costume and looking up at him with wide eyes. Speedsters have a habit of answering doors; Dick offers a smile he hopes doesn’t show any of his worry.

“Mind if I come in?”

Wally blinks. “Oh! Oh of course, come in.” Dick takes the invitation as Wally steps back, leaving room for him to slip through the open gap and into the base itself. The door shuts behind him. “Uh, what are you doing here, Nightwing? Is something wrong?”

“Just checking in,” he evades, and this time doesn’t wait for an invitation to head deeper into the base. Wally trails after him, and he aims a smile backwards at the kid. “How are you doing, Flash?”

Wally looks just as surprised to be asked, but brightens up after a moment. “Good! I mean, it’s a little weird to be here but it hasn’t been nearly as bad as I thought it might be and working with—” Wally blinks, snaps his mouth closed for a moment. “Uh… I… How much do you already know?”

Wary about talking; not the best of signs.

Before he can answer that, or get any more information, he comes out into a larger room and Slade is there waiting. Standing near the middle of it, arms crossed over his chest and gaze intent on where Dick’s paused in the doorway. For a second, Dick feels himself hesitate.

The medium-length hair he remembers, and the white eyepatch, but Slade is in a simple grey tank-top and a pair of black sweatpants, arms and feet bare, and it's… weird. He's pretty sure he's never seen Slade outside a suit of some kind; it's strange to see him casual. As if this is actually his home and not just a base. Is that calculated? Would Slade try and influence his perception of the situation by appearing casual instead of presenting a more threatening front? He can't read the look Slade is aiming at him, except that it seems just slightly… defensive?

"Slade," he greets, after a moment of silence. He knows he sounds guarded. He's not inclined to change that.

Slade doesn't give him an answer for a moment, just studies him. Then he inclines his head a shallow inch or two, gaze never lowering, and reciprocates with an equally guarded, "Kid."

Wally is hovering near his shoulder, and when Dick realizes that Slade has no intention of offering anything more he tilts his head towards Wally to say, "Flash, would you mind leaving us alone? And if they're here, would you let the others know that I'll stop through and say hi when Slade and I are done?"

Slade's mouth twitches into something like a smirk for a fraction of a second, reading through his admittedly not subtle way of ensuring the others expect to see him after, but Wally just nods and takes a sharp step to the side in that jittery way that speedsters do. "Sure. Yeah, no problem."

A flash of lightning and he's gone, and Dick is free to turn his attention fully back to Slade. Still just looking at him, not showing any sign of breaking the silence or being the first to give. No, of course not. Slade's always been patient. He doesn't really feel like competing against that right now.

"Here?" he asks, crossing his own arms. "Or do you want to have this conversation somewhere more private?"

"Now that you've made sure I won't murder you the moment we're left alone?" Slade counters, voice dry. "Sure. Follow me."

Slade doesn't wait for him to respond, just turns away and heads deeper into the base. After a moment of resisting the urge to glare at his back, Dick follows. As he does, he takes a look around. It's a good base; good tech from what he can see, and smooth, metallic lines. It's… very Slade. It absolutely doesn't look like a home so much as a training facility, and he doesn't know whether that's purposeful or if Slade just wasn't interested in trying to make it any more welcoming. Possible some of both. Maybe the rest of the team will actually add some personal touches to it, if it lasts long enough.

The corridor Slade leads him down seems to be the equivalent of quarters, and the door he actually goes to is the one at the very end; in the short wall at the end of the corridor and not on one of the sides like the rest. Yes, he would want to be set apart wouldn't he? He lifts his right hand to press against the scanner on the door, and Dick flinches back at the sudden sight of the black and blue mark on the back of it. It's like a gut punch, and for a second it's hard to breathe and he can't look away.

Then it drops, the door opens, and Slade walks inside. Dick breathes in and does the same.

"So, is this visit for a reason or are you just being protective of the ducklings?" Slade says, voice still dry and back to him.

Dick's gaze slides across the room; spartan, the bed partially mussed from recently being slept in, weapons on display against the wall with a closed door beside it that looks like a closet. It's smaller than he expected.

"Protective, I suppose." The door closes, and Dick looks back to Slade, avoiding looking at the hand now braced on Slade's hip. The single blue eye is a safer place for his gaze to rest. "I know these people, Slade. If you hurt them…”

"More than I already have, you mean?" The twist of Slade's mouth is a sharp thing. "I won't hurt them any more than necessary for their training; you have my word."

That really doesn't assuage his concerns in the slightest. "And what the hell does 'necessary' mean to you? Wally isn't used to any of this yet, and neither is Tanya. You can't just bully them into being better."

Slade scoffs, quiet but still more than audible. "I'm not going to break them, kid. If they break they shouldn't be in this trade anyway; better to have it happen in a controlled environment than in the field and you know it. But I wouldn't choose anyone for this team if I didn't think they were capable of improvement; those two might be new, but they have potential."

"Not if you do too much damage they don't. I don't know what your plans are here, but this isn't the military, Slade. Training them does _not_ mean desensitizing them to trauma." He steps forward, arms falling to his sides as he looks up at Slade, his mouth set into a hard line. "I've done my share of training new heroes; most of them will do better with encouragement and _fair_ training, not being pushed to their limits in every way you can think of. If you can't be kind enough—”

" _Kid_." Slade's tone is hard, hand falling off his hip as he shifts forward half a step. "You don't know what I'm capable of. I know what their limits are; I won't push further than they can take."

He doesn't quite think before he snaps, "I've seen your kids, Slade. I know exactly what you're capable of."

Slade doesn't flinch, not obviously, but he does in his own way. There's a way his lips press together, a way he doesn't answer and doesn't move, that proves the blow lands true. Hard enough to hurt. The guilt hits Dick almost immediately.

"I didn't mean—”

"Yes you did, kid.” Slade’s expression doesn't change from the hard cast, but his voice softens a bit. “You’ve always had a temper, but you’ve never been a liar, Grayson. You might not have meant to say it, but you meant it.” Slade’s gaze lowers as he gives a small shrug, taking a half step back and turning partially away. “You’re not wrong.”

Dick grits his teeth for a second, the quiet acceptance of his insult throwing him off balance. “That doesn’t mean it’s alright I said it.”

“Always quick to martyr yourself for other people’s comfort,” Slade comments, glancing back to him. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, kid. You said something we both know is true; why waste time pretending that it’s not?” Dick wants to fight that, but Slade is already stepping back and sinking down to sit on the edge of the bed, one hand lifting to comb his hair back along his scalp. “I’m…” Slade sighs, his single eye squeezing shut. “I’m trying, kid. I know I’m no good at any of this, and everyone in this damn place could tell you a dozen reasons why, but I’m trying.”

This… Could this all be real? Is Slade really on the path to being 'good?'

Dick steps forward, and Slade's eye opens again as he stops in front of him. He hesitates, fingers curling into loose fists at his sides as he studies Slade's expression. Guarded, still. Tired. "Look me in the eye," he says, "and tell me this is true. Tell me this isn't some game or plan to hurt those kids or fulfill some contract."

Slade holds his gaze, staying quiet for a couple long moments before answering, "It's real. There's no proof but my word, but you have that if it means anything to you."

And it _does_ , is the thing. Slade's a lot of things that he doesn't like, but Dick's never known him to go back on a promise. If he says that this whole 'hero' thing is real, if he's willing to give his word and look him in the eye while he does… If it's a lie Dick can't tell, and he's gotten pretty good at reading Slade's expressions over the years so if there's no hint of anything but sincerity (and the lingering guarded, tired edge), then maybe… Well, maybe it really is true. At least for now.

Dick dips his head a bit, and shifts to the side. When he sits down beside Slade he keeps as much space between them as the width of the bed will allow; roughly a foot and a half. "Alright," he agrees, quietly. "So you're really doing this? The whole 'hero' thing?"

Slade's head has turned enough to clear the blind spot his missing eye creates, the remaining one's gaze lingering somewhere near his knees. "I suppose. The kids need training if they're going to survive, and I'd… like to fix the mistakes I've made when it comes to them. All of them."

"What did you do to Tanya?" he asks, out of somewhat morbid curiosity.

He's definitely not expecting the blunt, "Killed her dog."

" _Jesus_ , Slade. You—”

"At the time, I thought she needed it." Slade's hands come together between his knees, the fingers of one rubbing at the knuckles of the other as if they ache. "I was blind for a bit, not long ago. She didn't know who I was and she tried to help me stay 'positive' about it all; she's a good kid, but she thought she was invulnerable. I proved her wrong; she needed to learn that." Dick rubs at his forehead, almost able to _feel_ the headache start. Slade's voice is somewhat more idle when he adds, "I got her a puppy to replace it, when I invited her to this team."

"You can't just—” He sighs, pushing his thumbs into his temples and holding back a groan. "How can anyone stand to stick around you?"

He means it as rhetorical, but a moment later Slade says, quiet once again, "I think the most common response is not to."

Dick looks over, but Slade's gaze is aimed towards his hands; he can only see the eyepatch from this angle. Still, there's a tension to the way his hands are now clasped, and the bare muscle of the closer arm. He finds his gaze lingering on the vivid blue of the mark on Slade's hand, visible between the spread of his fingers. He hasn't seen it in a long, long time, and he hadn't fully realized that the blue is such a perfect match for the shade of his Nightwing costume. He didn't do it on purpose, but maybe some bit of that image stuck in his head? Subconscious prodding? (Or, a part of his mind that he tries to deny says, maybe it really is destiny.)

"You don't hide it?" he finds himself asking, before he thinks.

Slade's hands loosen, fingers sliding away to bare the mark more fully. "Why would I? I'm not ashamed of having it."

"It doesn't bother you that people will wonder who it is? Or what they might assume?"

That earns him a low laugh, as Slade shakes his head. "Kid, there are very few people in the world whose opinions matter to me. I don't care what people assume; let them think what they want."

Dick's not even sure he really wants to know, but the question still comes out of his mouth regardless of his uncertainty. "What do your kids think?"

Slade turns to look at him, mouth curving into a small smirk and his tone a low drawl. "That whoever I share a mark with must be a singularly unlucky person. I believe Adeline's exact words were 'poor fucking bastard' when it came up in conversation." The smirk turns sardonic as he continues, "The kids were less colorful; I think Rose is still finding it hard to believe someone exists that's supposed to be able to stand me for any length of time. Joey doesn't talk to me as much as she does, but he won't want to talk about soulmates anyway; he's too ashamed of his own to want to discuss mine."

"Why? Who is it?"

"An older man of questionable morals," Slade says, with a slightly wider smirk. "Sound familiar?"

Dick shakes his head, choosing not to answer that specific question. "And Rose?"

Slade pauses for a moment, and when Dick looks back to him the smirk has fallen away. "As far as I know, she hasn't found hers yet. But I don't think she'd tell me if she had, unless it was someone I wouldn't approve of."

He winces.

“I’m sorry your kids—”

“Don’t, Grayson,” Slade interrupts. “ _I_ drove them away at every step; it’s my own fault that I’m estranged from them, and I don’t need your sympathy. With what I’ve done to them, I deserve how they treat me.”

“I don’t think that’s fair,” he argues, turning to look at Slade a bit more directly. “If you’re really going to try to fix things—”

“They don’t owe me anything.” Slade’s back straightens a bit, head turning to meet his gaze head on. “It’s not your family, kid. What you think is fair doesn’t matter; your experience doesn’t apply and you shouldn’t pretend that it does. Unless you’d council that the younger Wayne embrace his grandfather if ever asked?”

Dick nearly swallows his tongue, eyes widening behind the mask. “No, I—” He makes himself cut off, but then grinds his teeth together and counters, “Okay, first of all, you’re a long ways away from being Ra’s al Ghul. Being a mercenary is not the same as leading an entire organization of evil ninjas bent on collapsing most of the world’s societies, and I think you’re making the comparison for shock value and not because you actually believe it. Secondly, if someone really does want to change, and they _can_ … I…” He has to look away from Slade’s eye, from the blame of that mark on his hand, from the nearly terrifying realization that he _means_ it when he finishes, “I think they should be given the chance.”

There’s a moment of silence that Dick doesn’t dare look back for. Then, Slade asks, “Are we still talking about my kids?”

He swallows, wishing his hands were free of his gloves so he could feel more than just the pressure when he clasps them together. “Maybe?”

Slade huffs out a breath that sounds close to amused. “Kid, you don’t trust me and you’re right not to. You don’t want to force yourself into this because of the universe’s idea of a joke, and you don’t want to start anything with someone twice your age. Leave it be.”

Something hot bursts in his chest and it drives him to look back at Slade and _glare_. “You know what? _No_. You don’t get to tell me what I want, and you sure as _hell_ don’t get to play both sides like that. You don’t _get_ to try and convince me you want to fix your relationship with your family and then in the next breath turn around and try to drive me away by saying I shouldn’t _trust_ you. You can’t have both; pick one.”

His expression has gone hard, lips pressed together, and Dick can practically _see_ him calculating the two options as they look at each other. A frustrated huff of laughter escapes him, and he clenches his hands together and matches that expression.

“You know, I think you really do care for them. I think you pushed them out of your life to keep them safe, and after whatever you saw in the speed force I think you’re realizing that keeping them safe by not being there at all isn’t enough for you anymore. You want to fix what you’ve done to these kids, to your family, but for some reason you’re drawing a line at doing the same for me. Why, Slade? We’re marked; there’s _something_ here. If not being trustworthy is the reason I should stay away from you, then why doesn’t it apply to these kids too?” Dick takes a breath, and maybe he should bite his tongue there but the nearly-angry heat in his chest drives him to spit, “The only reason I can come up with is that you’re scared. And if this same reasoning doesn’t scare you away from your own kids then I’m really wondering what it is that’s different about me that has you trying to drive me off.”

Slade is utterly still. The look in his eye — cold and hard — would probably be enough to scare off just about anyone else, but Dick's had practice weathering Slade's moods and glares. He doesn't scare easy, and this is one thing he's not feeling like backing down on. Maybe this isn't his specialty, but he can be still when he needs to and this is one situation where he's pretty sure it's necessary. He wants an answer.

Finally, Slade's chin dips just a fraction. "I'm not what you want, kid. You—”

"That's _not_ what I asked." His turn to interrupt. "I'm not a kid anymore, Slade. I haven't been one in a long time. I'm not naive, or weak, or easy to manipulate like you're trying to. _I_ choose what I want, and right now what I want is an answer. Tell me why you're trying to convince me to leave."

"That _is_ the answer," Slade says, in what's nearly a growl. "I'm not going to be good for you, Grayson. You're better off not being around me, and not trying to pursue whatever it is that these marks mean. Go back to Bludhaven, find some nice boy or girl to settle down with, and stop trying to figure out something that won't do anything but hurt you."

"Your kids would be better off without you around too; you knew that before. Stop trying to talk me in circles; if you're not going to be good for me, you're not going to be good for them either. Why are you willing to risk them, but not me?"

Slade's jaw sets. "Kid—”

"I'm not—”

"You _are_ ," he snarls, teeth flashing and voice dark with threat. "I'm over twice your age, Grayson. I have _three_ children; one was just as old as you. I have an ex-wife and a reputation older than you are. I was in the military before you were _born_. To me, you're young. My family are tied to me, but you're not and if you've got any sense in that optimistic, thick hero head of yours you'll walk away while you've still got the chance. I respect you, kid, so I'm warning you. Back off before you get in this too deeply to get back out."

Dick's teeth are clenched, his eyes narrowed behind the mask. He lifts a hand and scrapes it down the side of his face, the tech in the fingertips of his gloves magnetizing to the edge of the prosthetic graft and pulling it off his cheek to bare the black and orange of the matching mark all but branded there.

"I'm pretty sure that moment passed a long time ago," he points out. "The universe's joke or not, fate says we're a pair."

Slade's gaze is fixed on the mark, but it pulls away as he stands, pacing away. "To hell with fate," he says, with a flick of the hand not lifting to run back through his hair. "You'd only get hurt, kid."

Dick follows him to standing, circling to get in front of him and catch that single-eyed gaze again. "You told me you were trying to fix things. To be better. Is that true?"

He watches Slade's Adam's apple lift as he swallows; maybe the closest thing he's seen to unease the whole encounter. "Yes."

He steps forward and reaches out, taking Slade's marked hand in his and lifting it to press the knuckles of it against his equally marked cheek in mimicry of their first touch. "So hurt me," he offers, holding Slade's hand there for a moment before he lets go as he lets his voice be low and serious. "I can handle it. I can't promise you that I actually want whatever this thing is that fate's laid out, but I think you really were changed by whatever it is you saw and I think you really do want to continue to change. You should know me well enough to know that I wouldn't turn away from anyone that really wanted to work on doing good."

Slade is still and tense for a few very long seconds. Then, slowly, his shoulders ease down an inch and he says, voice curled into something nearly sarcastic, "I suppose if you're going to stick around, I can't stop you. I guess it might do the kids some good to have a secondary trainer; their teamwork could use some fine-tuning and that's never been a focus of mine."

Satisfaction does brief battle with irritation, and Dick's tone ends up being some strange mix of the two when he answers, "Good, it's settled then. I've still got Bludhaven to keep watch over, but I'll be by when I can to work with them, and to show _you_ how to get better results with them. Maybe we can spar at some point; give them a taste of what they could be if they work at it?"

"Have somewhere you need to be?" When he shakes his head, wondering about the reason for the question, Slade continues. "Then why wait? Team's already expecting you; why not announce that you're joining us while you're here?"

"I… Hang on, I'm not _actually_ joining your team, I'm just helping. I don't do the black-and-white color scheme thing, for one. Also I'm working with you, not for you. Important difference."

"I'll be sure to stress that," Slade drawls. "Shall we then, before West decides I've killed you?"

Dick snorts. "Yeah, let’s." He looks down to the graft still in his hand, considering. These are friends, and maybe… maybe it's time he make some changes of his own.

He folds the graft and slips it away into one of his pouches, lifting his head to meet Slade's eye. No judgment there; no concern. It makes it easier for him to keep his head high and take enough of a breath to speak.

"So… Ready to have a partner, Slade?"


End file.
